


He'd Have Pointed Ears

by OriginalSynesthete



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-22 22:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16607033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalSynesthete/pseuds/OriginalSynesthete
Summary: Sometimes fate converges and the discordant harmonize despite all odds, despite one road avoided, another road taken. Either way, he would have pointed ears.  (I NEED A BETA.  PLEASE HELP A SISTER OUT.)





	1. A Night in Sickbay (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> \- The timeline of events is purposefully out of order from canon so that the story works. I've tried to make it clear when things happened, but if anything doesnt make sense, please tell me.
> 
> \- At the time, T'Pol didn't mention the mental aspect of her experience with Tolaris to Archer. Humans not being aware of that part of things makes it more 'duramtic', I think.
> 
> \- Also, while on duty, T'Pol wears the top (and matching pants that didn't exist in the show) that she wore on some away missions rather than those ridiculous catsuits (and lipstick). Because damn.
> 
> \- Reviews welcome! Constructive criticisms in particular are very welcome. FULL BETAING MOST VERY SUPER MUCH WELCOME. I need a beta. ::waves arms about:: I NEED A BETA! Please inquire privately. (I'm currently >60,000 words in.)
> 
> \- The universe, most characters, and chunks of plotting, situations, and dialog not mine. Please don't sue. Nemaiyo.

You know, at that point, I wasn't sure Doctor Phlox really had my best interests at heart. That was the third time just in that one day I had to consciously plant my ass back in my command chair. And it wasn't the first day I had to do it, either. I would start off thinking about whatever the ship's situation at hand ones, and the next minute, mind would just start to wander; if I got up, I'd find myself unconsciously gravitating over to the port side of the bridge. Then, when I "became aware of it", in the good doctor's words, I had no idea what to do with myself and couldn't come up with any decent excuse as to why I was there. I was hovering, and awkwardly. Even though I was technically aware of it, I'd kept putting off thinking it through, assuming my problem would eventually recede on its own. But my subconscious didn't agree with that. To be honest, my behavior must have looked at least a little unhinged.

And that's what the whole thing turned out to be: insanity, however well-intentioned at every step. It may have all ended up working out in the end, but not how anyone would have expected it to.


	2. Horizon 1

Finally giving up trying to get any real work done out on the bridge, he had retreated to his ready room. It was nagging at his mind that this "being aware of this" business was starting to interfere with his duties, and he couldn't have that. Overthinking it wasn't going to get him anywhere, but he couldn't help it, he decided. When someone says, "Don't look now, but there's a guy over there that—", the impulse is to _look_ ; it's human nature. But he needed to quell that impulse enough at least to carry out his duties like a professional. He wanted to find a way to manage it without thinking about it, if such a tactic were possible. The problem was, he didn't know if bringing it up with Phlox again would warp his brain any more than it already had.

The doorchime broke through his introspective concentration. For the second time since he walked in a dozen minutes ago, he noticed the status reports on his desk that he'd intended to distract himself with. The thought of them had been well been forgotten by now — in truth, since before he had even sat down. However he was dealing with this was not effective.  "Come." He rubbed his hands down over his eyelids and then looked up.

Damn.

The object of too many of his stray thoughts lately was standing before him in the flesh, covered from neck to ankle in her two-piece, subtly metallic, taupe duty uniform.  "Captain." It was the one person he hadn't realized it'd hurt like hell to miss when the High Command had called for her reassignment, the Vulcan he would never have expected he would care so much for, the woman he wasn't able to stop thinking about now.

Blinking, he couldn't discern why she was there. Sometimes she could be tough to read when not being open for human benefit. But more and more often, and especially since he had "become aware" and paid more attention, he had found that when she laid eyes on him, it wasn't with what he would interpret as a flat look of expressionless evaluation — or outright or even subtle judgement, for that matter. What it was, exactly, he wasn't sure. He only knew that she tended to have no qualms about holding his gaze, and he thought he imagined feeling a little tug in his chest every time.

As a prime example, he found it recurrently tormenting to not know quite what she meant when, the other day, she stood in this same room with a hint of a smile, her eyes focused diligently on his, and told him it was good they weren't attracted to one another or else it'd be a problem. They. Was she poking fun at him and that was all there was to it? Or by placing the stress on the "hypothetically" turn it into being about them both, that she intimating she was just as interested but they couldn't act on it because of their positions? Whatever it was, it was hard for him to ignore. But after the fiftieth time reconsidering it, she must've just been playing with him. Right?

Apart from these kinds of sporadic, lingering questions he consciously chalked up to cultural differences, he was pleased that every day that had gone by, they had become able to read each other a little better, understand each other a little more. With no surprise, this progress was helped by him finding an ability to push past his pride — one of his biggest failings that she had pointed out to him at the beginning of their mission — and actually take a look at her as an individual person rather than as an unmoved face of another species. When that happened, he thought, was when they started to click; it was the turning point of him starting to get the hang of her as much as she was starting to get the hang of him and the rest of them. And, very importantly, over the course of all the different circumstances and dilemmas that had been thrown at them, they had grown to trust one another implicitly. That even by itself made their working relationship so much easier overall. He had proven to her from the beginning he would always have her back, and to his jaw-dropping amazement not all that long ago, she had decided openly in front of her own people to prove she had his in return.

Even with the easy-enough rhythm they'd developed, it didn't mean they still didn't argue and butt heads regularly. They had met each other's match as far as stubbornness was concerned. He hadn't necessarily welcomed that with open arms, but he'd always respected her willingness to keep him in check, to call him out when she thinks he's being arrogant or reckless. It's not something you can buy from someone working under you in almost any other profession. They balanced each other out well in that and so many other respects.

"Subcommander."  It was a half greeting, half question. When she said nothing, a crease formed between his eyes, and his mouth shifted.  "What can I do for you?"

No, he wasn't sure what she was thinking from her expression, but one thing he knew was certain: She had definitely not been avoiding him herself. 'Was she just curious?', he wondered. 'Simply friendly from letting her guard down around me? Or maybe she's just humoring me.' And then he dipped back in to those previous thoughts he had tried and failed to keep at bay. 'But _what if_ she's interested too?' He inwardly laughed at himself then, admitting the odds of that were probably astronomically low. Vulcans and humans had been around one another for nine decades, and not once had any of them paired off. 'It would be a hell of a thing to be the exception to the rule.', he chastized himself at the impossibility of it. Apparently, allowing himself to think about "it" just a little had sent those kinds of thoughts of his careening off into outer space. He really wanted to figure out how to turn that fantastical idea off like a tap.

"I had assumed there was something you wanted to tell me over the course of the morning.", she spoke, bringing him back to the real world.

"I'm not sure what you mean." Called out, he unwillingly pushed his PADD over to the side of his desk.

"You have been by my station - 'hovered', as you would call it - multiple times today.  I can only assume you were considering speaking to me about a matter you decided you were not comfortable addressing on the bridge."

His lips parted, but he couldn't seem to move them; it took awhile before a reply came to mind.  "No, nothing I wanted to tell you.  I'm sorry; you must've gotten the wrong impression."  Her expression remained impassive, and not for the first time, Archer noted that her ability to notice every detail could be annoying.  Useful most of the time, yes, but in this case, downright annoying.  He repeated to himself not to make any Freudian slips or whatever Phlox had called them so as to raise her suspicions.  "There's just been a lot going on lately.  A lot on my mind."

Her commanding, appraising stare never subsided, he thought. "Perhaps I could suggest meditation."

He stifled a laugh of incredulity. "I'm not sure I would know how. I was actually thinking more along the lines of joining the others for the movie tomorrow night."

"I take it that was Commander Tucker's suggestion."

Amused, he leaned back in his chair. "It was. Did he try to get you to go too?"

She hesitated, but only for a second.  "I believe you would find meditation of great benefit.", she dodged. After another pause to consider the wiseness of the offer, she added, "If you would make time in your schedule this evening, I can begin to teach you."

He was surprised, to say the least. It wasn't exactly every day that a Vulcan asked an outsider to join in on a private activity with them. "Are you sure? You have time?"

The tilt of her head and lift of her eyebrow were just on the perceptible side, as if she were having her own internal dialogue and why-not shrugging at her own suggestion.

Okay. And without thinking, he stood and paced to the far end of his ready room, mere feet away, to contemplate the merits of the offer as personally detached as he could. Admittedly, he'd realized that he had spent most of his life avoiding giving a damn about Vulcan traditions and what they did on their own time or what they thought or why.  But he was now commanding a starship with a clear mission: to search out and understand other cultures. Light-years away from the Vulcan homeworld, with the distance between them not seeming so overbearing to him, and with one he trusted, it wouldn't be a bad time to purposefully try to understand them better. 'Them' is what he told himself. It wouldn't be in the spirit of interspecies cooperation to turn this kind of offer down, he decided.  "Alright. Sounds like a good idea." He added, "Thank you for the invitation."

She dipped her head slightly.

Before she could fully turn to leave, he made a counter offer. "Why not a full cultural exchange, and you come to the movie? A little fraternizing couldn't hurt."

"I don't understand how sitting silently in a darkened room constitutes fraternizing."

"It's, um," he grasped at an explanation, "a communal experience."

"I hadn't planned to attend."

He didn't figure so.  He kept in a sigh and put his hand on a ceiling beam to leaned on it. But then, there was something about the way she said it that suggested she might be leaving the possibility open.  "Meditation Monday, Theater Tuesday?"  He tried not to make it sound as silly as it did. "I tell you what, let's make a night of it: dinner in the captain's mess, 1830, movie at 1900, you'll be my date." Aaah, well, he hadn't quite meant to say that. But he did, and that was that. He plowed past the thought that this might go against his better judgement, that his ability to not think much about her while spending time with her two nights in a row, at least one of which would be in a small, enclosed space, was probably not his brightest move.

"I beg your pardon?" She hadn't expected it, that much was obvious, but he was relieved she didn't look appalled, either.

That gave him the courage to pretend it was nothing. "I'll be a perfect gentleman. And," he added, "if you don't like the movie, I'll never ask you to sit through another one."

"If you insist.", she lilted, "although I will be meditating on Tuesday as well, afterward."

There it was in her voice again, but he hadn't insisted.  So why did she make it 'easy'?  She turned and left without giving him a chance to respond. He shook his head and put it out of his mind as best he could so he could concentrate on writing the day's report.

As it happened, what they had gotten one another to agree to in that conversation on that day would turn out to be the biggest gamechanger of their lives.


	3. Horizon 2

She had wondered if he would find an excuse to bow out or at least be late, but her door chimed promptly, and she opened it.

"Subcommander."

"Good evening, Captain."

As she moved aside to let him in, he compared his crewneck and joggers to her loose, silken cyan tee and matching pants that he'd seen her donn before as sleepwear, and he tentatively placed a foot over the threashhold. "I'm not imposing?"

"I believe learning meditation techniques would prove useful to your concentration."

And he hesitated fully in his advancement. "I meant, you're sure this isn't a bad time?"

"This is not a bad time." He almost thought he'd imagined the flicker of the glance she gave his tee before returning her eyes to his. "I will transition to my own meditation after our session is over." She waited patiently for him to enter, and he did so this time while taking in the fresh scent of her spartan quarters which were decorated in drab blue, gray, and brown hues.

A good a conversation starter as any. "It occurs to me I've never asked what your favorite color is." He paused, she blinked. "Blue?"

"No." His face indicated bemusement, and although he didn't inquire further, she did supply him her preference, "Tomato.", and waited to see what he would make of that.

His interest was immediately piqued, struck at how abnormal it sounded for a Vulcan to know off the top of her head a very particular shade of color, in English, based on a terran fruit. She must have looked it up and remembered because she had wanted to, not because she would have a believably logical reason to. He almost pressed her on it just so he could be amused by her attempt at trying to explain it logically.

Feigning indifference at the shift in his expression, she redirected past it. "But blues and grays and 'softer' colors are utilized by Vulcans, as they are with the dominant culture of your planet, to psychologically aid in calmness and detachment. They are undistracting and used specifically in areas where high stress is to be expected."

"Hm." Living among humans was stressful for her, and he had known it would be from the start. There were times, especially early on, it was almost as stressful the other way around. But he'd hoped over time that she would be able to settle in, let her guard down a little, and get more used to them in general. He was in fact sure all of that had panned out to be the case, it was just her decor that hadn't caught up to the same extent yet. Visually poking around her quarters further, he noted that the few occasions he'd been in there before were for business purposes, and with it being so... Vulcan in character, it never occurred to him to let his eyes wander. He wasn't expecting to see anything out of the ordinary, certainly. He trailed after her as she crossed the room, and while she retrieved one of a handful of candles from a shelf, he squinted in the lukewarm lighting and noticed an unnatural figure previously hidden on the near side; its color and its character stood out from the sparse crowd of items to catch his eye. Pleased, he nodded a sly grin at it, the fluffy, red — well, tomato, actually — stuffed alien, not far from where the candles sat. It was to his further amusement that it seemed someone had already had a productive color discussion with the subcommander. "Does he help your meditation process?"

She chastized him with the barest change in her features. "'Gorak', as Engisn Sato calls it, was a personal gift from her." T'Pol clicked the room's panel, and the lights lowered further. Then, alighting with care the lone candle she held, she moved to the middle of the room and took a seat on one of two padded mats she had previously arranged. He took her lead, lowering himself onto the mat opposite her almost as quietly, in a mirrored cross-leggèd position. After a thoughtful pause, she rested the candle on the floor between them, then formally introduced him to their meeting. "The purpose of this session is for you to gain a method of relaxation and an ease of introspection."

It was hard to argue with that; it'd been one hell of a year and a half out here, and he could use some of the relaxation at the least. Maybe if the meditation didn't work for him for the rest, Phlox could work with him a little more.

"The first goal is to clear your mind."

He considered that a minute, not wanting to lie to her if he had doubts he'd be able to. "I think I can do that."

In response, she held her hands out on either side of the candle toward him, palms up, and took a full breath, closing her eyes. In the last minutes of what he would later come to regard as his singlular, discrete life, he again mirrored her actions, fingertips only an inch from hers. All he could see were what he ever saw when he closed his eyes at night: blobs of darkness, along with a diffused blob of soft light near the middle from the candle.

She could tell he was still focused on the external. She kept her voice soft, and it washed over him as she instructed him at a leisurely pace. "You can feel the mat beneath you, the floor beneath your feet. You relax your body. You can feel the air around you. You breathe it in and breathe it out. You relax your lungs. You can feel the candle in front of you. You relax your face."

Gradually, thoughts and shapes and colors whisked away from behind his eyelids to reveal a blank, dark canvas.

"Concentrate your attention on the candle, amd then turn your attention inward. Pour your energy into that space."

He did what he thought she was asking. It felt like pushing a part of himself forward and having it renewed and sent back to him. His breathing had become slow and steady, his mind singularly focused on the task she'd requested of him. The flow of 'energy' regularized, and sometime thereafter, he became aware of the midnight drape of darkness that surrounded his calm. He must've leaned forward some in the process — or maybe she had as well? — because although it was unclear to him, the backs of his fingers had come to lightly lay on hers, causing his inner universe to shift just so and leaving him immediately feeling anchored. Off in front of that space, he felt — or saw, he wasn't sure — in his mind's eye what seemed to be that anchor, a slowly swirling, earthen-colored energy, soft at the edges. As he focused more on it, it seemed to center downward and gently reverberate around the ill-defined bubble of his mental landscape like ripples flattening out. He had no idea what it was.  _'T'Pol?'_ , he thought he whispered her name out loud, but his query was only expressed within his internal monologue. What he didn't realize was that this wasn't just a meditative state but that he was literally communicating with his mind through their medium of touch.

Momentarily, she froze. Had her mind fabricated the sound of his voice? She managed a reply, just in case it was not of her doing. _'More quietly.'_ , her disembodied voice vibrated in his head. At 'hearing' her, she registered a level of similarly stunned disbelief from him, but he somehow kept himself from moving away, physically or mentally. He stayed silent for a bit, taking it all in and making a serious effort to stay calm because of the impossibility of this happening; she thought she could barely hear him whisper inside his mind to himself to follow her meditative directions from minutes ago.

_'Am I imagining it, or can you hear me?'_ , finally came his response to what had, or hadn't actually, transpired.

_'You are not imagining it.'_

Either he was talking to himself in his head or they were in fact communicating. He wasn't about to break the moment to find out for sure, making himself look like he wasn't taking the meditation seriously by opening his eyes. _'I don't understand.'_

_'Nor do I.'_ She added with perplexed reluctance, _'Humans are not known to possess the ability to communicate telepathically.'_

_'Telepathic?'_ He was incredulous, never having heard of such a thing outside of science fiction he had read as a child. _'Funny; I didn't know humans were aware that_ Vulcans _could do that.'_ The comment was tinged with testiness and frustration, but it was not quite to the level of resentful and angry that it would have been over a year ago, and not just because of the calmed meditative state involved now. And even if telepathy were really happening — _surely not_ — he wondered if she wouldn't pick up on every stray thought and feeling going through his head. He wanted to back away, but he couldn't make himself.

She seemed to take the comment of his, the one that she could hear well enough, and chose to divulge a tidbit about this bombshell. _'Only under certain circumstances. For instance, touching and actively desiring to communicate.'_ She could feel another mental brush of displeasure and unease from him, gaining her own unease as he pushed further mentally towards the source of her, thinking that would give him some answers, or that he believed he had the right to wander into her mental bubble merely because telepathic information about her species had not been shared with him. She placed a mental hand on his shoulder as if making to stop him, but she quickly discovered it had the effect of further anchoring him in their link. From there, the space between them seemed to shift again, to sink, shrink, and unravel, and then they both felt a click inside their minds, almost as if a door had been unlatched.

T'Pol's eyes flew open immediately, though unfocused, whereas Archer's remained closed and his countenance serene until a second or two later when he blinked "awake" as if coming out of a trance. In contrast, her breathing was, for a Vulcan, coming more noticeably shallow and quick than it should have after a meditation session.

His first breath was instinctual from his body needing to restore its oxygen levels. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath, and this time he took a long drag of air, wishing he'd come out of this feeling totally relaxed as intended, but... Training his eyes on her, he realized something was very off. "What happened?"

She looked confused — startled? — or angry? He couldn't say for sure. He also couldn't say for sure where he fell on that spectrum himself.

"We are finished here.", she eventually stated with a guarded caution he couldn't interpret the source of, and she rose from her position on the mat, never during the process allowing her eyes to settle on him.

"Did _I_ do something wrong?", he looked up at her.

A simple, considered "No." came after a very brief pause.

But he got the feeling he had in fact done something terribly socially unacceptable as far as Vulcan culture went. Vulcan _telepathy_ went. And he also knew whatever it was, it one was hundred percent the opposite of his fault. He nonetheless steeled himself with a breath. "Look, I'm sorry I was upset. _Am_ upset." He glanced at the candle that was slowing down its dance that had been caused by her previous movement, then he returned his focus to her. "But I think _why_ should be understandable."

He took her inability to communicate further, let alone look at him, as an indication to him the session was over, just as she had tried to make a point of moments ago. With a deeper furrowing of his brow, he uncrossed his legs and got up off the floor. "And I think I deserve an explanation.", he added. He waited to see if she was in the mood just then to explain. Seeing no reply on the horizon, he turned to leave, and that is when she spoke up.

"Captain."

He waited, her eyes now glued to his.

"Please — I ask that you do not mention this to anyone." It came out like deer-in-headlights pleading.

The implications raced through his mind: 'Telepathic communication among Vulcans was most definitely a phenomenon Starfleet would find worth knowing. It sure as hell seems like something they deserve to know. Hell, what if... So many reasons why. The fact of the matter is, if they found out now, it could cause a serious interstellar upset, even if it only became "private" Starfleet knowledge, forget the disruption the knowledge would cause if Andoria and whoever else didn't know and found out. And now that it's on the table, it's my call to make.' He shook his head and dropped it, feeling caught between a rock and a hard place, and then he appraised his first officer. He didn't think this was the time to violate what trust they'd built between them, even considering what she'd accidentally revealed. "Alright. For right now.", he qualified. "But the two of us will talk about this soon." It wasn't harsh, but it was definitive. He didn't think it was wisest to start by forcing information from her to resolve his concerns; he'd much prefer some attempt at a reasonable-sounding explanation from her when she was ready. And he hoped she would be ready sooner rather than later.

She nodded in almost fearful submission, and this odd vulnerability she showed left him uneasy, wanting to fix this but continuing to get the impression that now was not the time. With one last look, he left her quarters.

Suppressing a shiver, she returned to her mat and stared at the candle, eyes a little wider than expected, breathing remaining a little more erratic than expected after what was intended to be a calming meditation session. She wasn't certain what had happened between them, or why the captain, a human, would be able to communicate with her telepatically, but she knew there was a line that had to have been crossed. And she knew she was the one who had allowed it to happen. This was why, she chastized herself, only family members should touch one another, or those well-trained and with a purpose should touch others. She derisively speculated that Vulcan children had better control of themselves than her; she should have had a far better handle over her mind and of the situation. And now she needed to meditate alone before bedtime, if not to regain better control of her mind, then to at least calm herself before she tried to sleep.

But all she could do was stare at the candle as the image of it burned into her retinae. Unable to concentrate well enough after some time, she finally blew out the offending flame.


	4. The Tholian Fluke

"It's a Tholian vessel.", supplied T'Pol from her station the next morning.

The armory officer announced from his, "Sir, I think... maybe they've powering a weapon?"

"Hull plating!"

But it wasn't in time; before he could react, the unknown ship had discharged one unexpected round, and the _Enterprise_ rocked with the direct hit causing her crew to catch their collective balance. Without a word, Reed had efficiently polarize the hull, albeit a split second after the fact.

"Hoshi?", Archer glanced at his comm officer for information, giving her just enough time for input before he would order fire be returned.

"Sir, they haven't been returning our hai— Wait, yes they are!", Hoshi corrected herself, looking up for permission to open the channel.

Flummoxed and stepping down from the adrenaline burst, he nodded to patch the offending ship through the comm.

"Voice only," she clarified with a sudden frown before a dodgy alien voice filled the bridge.

"Error. Not you. We apologize."

Archer exchanged a nonplussed look with his linguist and then with his science officer. Neither had ideas of value to impart, it seemed. "No permanent harm done, I don't think."

No reply was forthcoming.

"Care to tell us—"

And with that, the comm was cut off.

"Sorry, Captain. Looks like the short-range communications overloaded and just burned out the transceiver." Hoshi's fingers danced over the keys on her panel.

"Any way to re-establish the link?", he asked, striding over to Hoshi's station which happened to be no more than a couple of feet from his science officer's.

Trip chimed in with an explanation from across the bridge. "The external relay fried secondary to the initial hit. I just got a crew on it, but the chain of damage might take a while to clean up 'n' glue back together."

"They're moving away at full impulse." Continuing through Reed's update, Archer pulled a face.

"For what it's worth, Captain, they were speaking English.", Hoshi offered.

He frowned in confusion at her, then at T'Pol, and finally shook his head. "I don't know what that was supposed to be, but here I was thinking this might be a boring day of interstellar travel." After the ship had gone and nothing further seeming to transpire, he plodded over to the port side of the bridge. "May as well write it up. Lieutenant, T— Subcommander," he uncharacteristically stumbled over her appellation, "if you could compile and send me the specs of that configuration in case we should run into them again? I'll be in my ready room. Ensign, keep us on course."

=/\=

Not fifteen minutes later, T'Pol asked for entry to the diminutive space he'd retreated to.

"Come." was his automatic reply. When he saw who it was, his anxiety rose just a tad.

"Captain.", she stood prim and proper, and he gave her his full attention.

When she didn't immediately offer forth anything, he commented, "I take it this isn't about the Tholian ship."

"It isn't."

She looked embarrassed, he thought.

"I apologize for my behavior last night. I acted foolishly." Vexed, she shifted on her feet. "What happened was not supposed to happen, and that is my fault."

Well, at least there was an apology. "What _did_ happen, Subcommander?" He was formal on purpose; he felt pretty formal after this 'tidbit' he'd learned about Vulcan telepathy, what had been kept from him and everyone else all these years.

Her fingers fidgeted behind her back. "I did not have full control over my mind or the meditation process. I should not have allowed physical contact between us."

"You said it was telepathy."

Her disinterest in sharing information on this topic was palpable, and her eyes darted before she could muster up a complete thought. "It has not been a subject publicly discussed with other species."

He blinked, amazed but absolutely annoyed at the same time. "No, apparently it hasn't." 'One more secret.', he thought. "I can't help but wonder why."

She shifted again to get more comfortable before deciding to continue, seeing as how he didn't seem interested in letting the topic go. She would just have to trust him with this information. "You are aware Vulcans typically refrain from making direct physical contact with anyone other than close relatives."

He followed her to a point. "Because you're telepathic."

"Touch telepaths, yes.", she confirmed.

"And that's never been mentioned to humans?"

"Not to my knowledge. Physical touching is generally considered to be a private, ...intimate exchange."

He blinked. But what of him? "So... what you're saying is, humans can — may be able to become", he corrected himself, "telepathic?"

The blankness of her expression showed she was as clueless as he on that question. It was hardly something that had been openly tried - at least, to her knowledge.

He couldn't help but wonder in what way past diplomatic sessions and other interactions might have been compromised. "Are Vulcans able to read human minds?" It sounded accusatory, and it was.

She had the good grace to continue looking ashamed, at least as much as a Vulcan could. "Theoretically. But as I said, this is not a practice that tends to occur outside intimate Vulcan relationships, so it is unlikely it has been tried."

Well, that explanation brought a small relief to him. "Until now."

She was without an idea how to respond to that beyond once again apologizing and promising it would not happen again, but she was saved from that by an interruption of Reed's voice over the internal comm. "Captain, another ship has appeared off our port bow."

He stood from his chair and went around T'Pol, unceremoniously leaving for the bridge before her. But he at least gave credit to her for not beating an easy, hasty retreat ahead of him. "Our Tholian friends?"

"I don't believe so, sir."

Now on the steps up to the bridge, he asked, "What did you mean by 'appeared'?"

"Appeared out of thin air, sir. Space.", the armory officer answered and corrected himself with bewilderment, his grey-green eyes darting over the screens before him, continuing to run scans. "But I haven't seen this configuration before either.  It's small.  One life form aboard."

"Hail them."

Hoshi spoke up from her station, a communication so garbled it couldn't be understood by any of the bridge crew, even her. "There's no way to sir; the excomm repair isn't finished yet."

"It's not a Tholian ship.", T'Pol seconded the assessment, now back at her station.

"It's coming toward the door of launch bay one. Should I open it, sir?", asked Reed.

'A small craft means it probably doesn't have a lot of weaponry on it by default.', Archer thought. "Go ahead."

Reed cut back in.  "It's entering the launch bay."

"Send in a security team. I'll go down there and say hello myself."

"Yes, sir."

"T'Pol, you have the bridge." He gave her a shared protracted look after entering the turbolift before the doors closed. He could tell it was going to be an eventful Tuesday.

=/\=

Half a dozen security officers had arrived before he did. They were now standing guard meters away from the new ship, a shuttlepod in the typical Starfleet light gray with a touch of warmth to it. Yet it was of a design they weren't familiar with.  There was a symbol painted on its side along with a short registry number in English, but neither of those were recognizable either, and the captain was positive he was up-to-date on the latest in their own fleet.  He thought the visitor aboard might be able to fill him in, and on cue, a door opened from the back of the shuttle, drawing his attention.  He motioned to his officers to hold up while he approached alone, intending to give a friendly welcome to the new guest if at all possible — that is to say, greet without the brandishing of any phase pistols.

What he wasn't expecting was a Vulcan to emerge. But then, recent experience should have taught him to expect the unexpected out there in uncharted waters.  The Vulcan was barely taller, about an inch off Archer's height. He was also fairly young, maybe in his late teens or early twenties at the most.  He didn't come off as either guarded or threatening, as Archer had felt the majority of his kind did; instead, he seemed to be perturbed — but then, that shifted to, what was that, an actual smile?  He had looked over to the captain with an expression he'd never seen on a Vulcan before, with the possible exception of just a hint of the same that graced his first officer's face from time to time.

The Vulcan's lack of an air of tightassedness compelled Archer to welcome him as warmly as V'Lar had when they'd met.  "Welcome to _Enterprise_. I'm Captain Archer.", and as he'd become accustomed, he stopped short of offering his hand, the question of what it was with Vulcans and their aversion to touching other people flitting through his mind again. He'd always figured it was part of their general semi-xenophobic superiority complex.  And he'd hated to think it, hated to go there. He much preferred to think he was over that mindset.  'But at times they'd historically made it pretty damned hard not to go there.', he thought. But maybe it wasn't that at all, if his mental encounter with T'Pol last night was what he should judge by.

The visitor raised an eyebrow to the captain's greeting and morphed what appeared to be almost a grin into a delicate, quizzical frown. "Lieutenant junior grade Solon Henry Archer.", he spoke softly with a rising tone at the end.

Jonathan Archer was fairly certain the security officers hanging behind him hadn't heard.  "Excuse me?", he chuckled, stupefied, then thought to himself, 'What a bizarre— Who does this Vulcan think he is?'

But the Vulcan's expression was incredulous.  Continuing through the officers' dislike of their visitor's forward movement, he stepped close enough to the captain that the latter thought about taking a step back, but the former looked over his elder's shoulder at the security detachment beyond, then lowered his head conspiratorially and almost whispered, "Dad, is this a joke?"

That gave Archer pause like nothing else ever had, and he was a man who that not long ago had been slingshotted eight hundred years into a dystopian future. He hadn't a clue what to say to this, stunned into part leaning back, part stepping back and examining the face of this young Vulcan, searching for some explanation. To his surprise, he did find something: a resemblance.  Longish face, but a little rounder.  An indentation at the chin, but not as noticeable as his own.  Straight brown hair, whereas coal black hair was more common for both their species.  Green eyes like his own. Upswept eyebrows like a typical Vulcan's, angular, and otherwise, a bit bushy, also like his. Then he stopped himself, and his jaw reset to the side.  'Is this resemblance real or only the effect of him mentally priming me?', he asked himself.  'Or has he had himself physically altered? _What's the point of this?_ '

At the captain's change in demeanor, his eyebrows dipped; something had occurred to him after he had, in turn, looked the elder over, maybe making sure he thought he also really was who he thought he was — or, at least, who he thought he was supposed to be. "What's the date?", he asked, decidedly not joking.

"April first, twenty-one fifty-two.", Archer answered matter-of-factly this time, finding his voice again.

His face slackened, blanched, and his eyes went wide, belying the natural coolness behind those pointy ears.

Keeping an eye on the visitor for a few moments longer, Archer turned to his security team and instructed them to wait outside the doors, then he whipped out his comm to contact the only other Vulcan on-board, the only other person at all who might have a clue as to what was going on here. "Archer to T'Pol."

"Captain.", came the succinct reply.

"I need you in launch bay one immediately."

"Acknowledged."

Maybe she would be able to provide some input about what was going on with this Vulcan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I don't want to post the next chapter without a beta going over it first. So... hit me up. Pretty please.


End file.
